


Pretty Boy

by runrarebit



Series: Misfits Moments [18]
Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: AU, Affection, Affectionate Sex, Alternate Timeline, Bottom!Nathan, Crossdressing, Feelings, Feminization, Guilt, M/M, Nathan confusing himself, Nathan is a pretty boy, Not everyone being so understanding about the whole crossdressing thing, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Rimming, Simon thinks Nathan has pretty legs, Simon trying to be a good boyfriend, Smut, a bit of angst, dress thievery, leg worship, respectful sex, some mention of enemas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 08:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18890746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runrarebit/pseuds/runrarebit
Summary: So this happens pretty soon after S02E03 andSimon Versus Mister Dick.Nathan steals Alisha's dress- which Alisha isn't that happy about- and Simon reacts.





	Pretty Boy

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for the others not being all that understanding about Nathan in a dress. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and the comments and kudos! I hope you all had a good weekend!
> 
> [Dog update for anyone interested. It now seems she had toxoplasmosis for the last couple of years, giving her neurological symptoms that the vets I saw thought were due to her being a seniour dog, or her developing epilepsy, or her having a brain tumour- particularly as the standard bloodwork cam back negative and they didn't think to check for toxoplasmosis as it's usually asymptomatic in healthy dogs. She's now on her forth week of treatment with Clindamycin- the antibiotic used to treat protozoa (this treatment also means we now can't check for her having had toxoplasmosis) and she doing really. really well. Touch wood.]

The dress is short, strapless, clingy— kind of a weird pink-blue snakeskin or something pattern with some metallicy kind of shit printed on it. It’s been at the bottom of Alisha’ locker for the last couple of weeks. She came in one day with a shopping bag from some boutique that’s closing down, taking a handful of dresses out of it one at a time and holding them up against her body in front of the mirror, frowning or pulling a face or nodding at each one— this one she frowned at, this one just got shoved in the bottom of her locker when the probation worker wandered in and started droning at them. This one she seems to have forgotten about. 

He’s not even sure why he noticed it. He’d watched her as she was fucking around with the dresses the first time around, but that was more because that’s what you do, watch people when they’re doing something unusual— even if that something’s not all that interesting. The question is why has his mind kept monitoring this dress after, noticing it lying in its sad little heap every time he’s passed her open locker afterwards?

Another question would be why he decided to take it from her locker today. In his defence she didn’t actually shut the door of the thing properly, so it’s not like he broke into her locker, just swung it open the rest of the way and retrieved the dress. 

He holds it up to the light, turning it this way and that, checking for patches of dried Curtis spunk— in case she actually has worn it and he just missed it. Nope. Clean and new and tags still on. Ugly red sticker over them showing the drastically discounted price. He moves in front of the mirror, holding it up in front of his body— The orange jumpsuit gets in the way. He can’t tell if the dress would look good on him.

So, yes, he is aware that he probably shouldn’t be doing this. He should just put it back and go and find his boyfriend— the only reason he’s even in the bathroom by himself right now was because this afternoon has been one of those times where he felt like it might be a good idea to use an enema before the next time he sat on his boyfriend’s cock—and since he wants to sit on it the moment it’s just the two of them, alone, the others gone for the day, it seemed like an idea to get ready. 

Since the tattoo business he’s felt a bit odd. Off. For some reason his libido has been focussing less on wanting it up against the wall or in the loos and more on being in bed, no one else around, Simon kissing his neck, Simon telling him he _loves him._ They didn’t even shag after lunch, his mind dwelling on getting Simon on his back on the shitty little mattress, maybe give the man a nice, slow ride until he’s shaky and stupid and begging to be allowed to come—

And there’s the guilt. He hates thinking about it, but he can’t seem to get away from it. He’d been so drunk at the time, world unsteady, bleary, all the colours bright and smearing across his vision. It’s like he’d forgotten Simon entirely, like he had no memory of them being together, kissing, touching, fucking, but part of him had known something was wrong, that his head wasn’t working right. He’d thought drinking would make it all easier— that’s one of the reasons you drink, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to have to listen to all the voices in your head. 

She was blonde, he thinks, bottle blonde— cute. A cute girl. The kind he would have tried it on with before Simon, but probably been rejected. He hadn’t even gone after her this time, she’d just flopped down onto the seat next to him and offered to buy him a drink—

Her mouth had tasted like beer and the sticky gloss she had on her lips. He’d felt himself go cold. He doesn’t know why. If his mind was into it surely his body should have just played along? It doesn’t matter though, does it? Whatever the reason he’s so fucking relieved he couldn’t do it, that he ran away like a twat instead of doing something he’d be eating himself alive for right now. He can’t even remember the excuses he’d made, just the relief as he’d spilled out into the cold night, away from her. 

He keeps checking his mouth though, looking for cold sores, looking for some evidence, some contamination he’s brought back into his relationship with Simon. He doesn’t know _why_ either. Why he feels like this. Maybe it’s just because he’s never really gone out with someone properly before— He’s mainly been a love them and leave them type, and the times it’s been more than that— it doesn’t last. It’s never lasted. This is the longest anything like this has ever lasted for him—

He’d not going to admit that he’d terrified that Simon will get sick of him. That he’ll do something that—

_’What do you want?’_ Simon keeps asking him, _’You’ve done so much for me— is there anything you want to try?’_

He can never think of an answer. It’s good, what they do. He likes it. He _loves_ it— fingers and tongue and cock and spunk up his arse, in his mouth. All of Simon’s attention on him. He doesn’t think he wants more— He doesn’t think there can be more to want—

Simon had asked him if he wanted to top for once— and he’s ashamed of how quickly the “no” had slipped out. Afterwards he’d thought maybe he was being selfish, it feels so _good_ after all, so he’d tried having a wank thinking about sticking it in his boyfriend instead of the other way around— and then gotten distracted by the thought of Simon on top of him, inside him, that perfect, fat cock splitting him open. He’d tried to keep his fingers out of his own arse, just wanking his cock, but he hadn’t managed it— 

He’d brought it up again the next day, whether Simon actually wants to be fucked— if he’s reading the situation correctly it’s not actually something his boyfriend is after, it’s just that Simon thinks he’s being unfair to him, always making him be the one who _takes_ it. He hopes he managed to convince his boyfriend that it feels like the opposite to him, that he feels greedy, selfish, entirely too happy getting fucked all the time. He loves it. Fuck does he love it.

He wonders if he’d love it so much if it wasn’t Simon— maybe, maybe not. He suspects he’s got a body primed to like it up the arse, but he doubts there’s another man alive that could fuck him as good as Simon does. 

He rubs the almost sticky, stretchy, strange fabric of the dress between two fingers. He can’t work out what he’s thinking, all he knows is impulses are firing away— why the hell not?

He shucks the jumpsuit, the singlet he’s wearing underneath, his socks— hesitates at his black briefs. It’s probably a bit too much, a bit too off, to rub his cock all over the inside of Alisha’s dress— it’d be too much like wanting to rub his cock on Alisha— which he doesn’t think he’s actually ever wanted to do. His first impression had been _hot but high-maintenance_ , his second impression was worry about what he’d say if she ever touched him once she got her power, his third impression was _can’t even fuck her_ , his fourth impression was some twattish shit about how good she and Curtis get on, his fifth impression was _nowhere near as hot as Simon_ — he leaves them on. 

The dress is pretty much a tube of stretchy fabric, no zip or anything, with only a line of elastic encased around the top and another at the waist to give it any structure. As he pulls it over his head it rolls up on itself, so it takes a minute to get it untangled and on the right way, then a minute more to decide whether he wants to be flashing the top of his nipples or the bottom of his bulge at the world at large. It is very short. It is probably made for a girl of Alisha’s height. It is not made for a guy as tall as him. 

He frowns at himself in the mirror, trying to pull it up and down at the same time. ‘Fuck this,’ he mutters, grabbing at his bulge and pushing it back, spreading his thighs enough that he can tuck it back against his taint, then pressing them together firmly to hold it in place. That’s better. He can just cover his nipples while showing off pretty much the entirely of his legs this way.

He blinks. Lets his eyes focus on himself reflected in the mirror. 

He doesn’t look like a woman— which he registers as a good thing. He doesn’t want to be a woman, he wants— 

He looks pretty, in a weird kind of way. He looks like a pretty boy in a dress that straddles the line between pretty and fuck-ugly. He can see all the bumps and curves of his body beneath the clingy fabric— nipples, ribs, belly button, arch of hips, the line of his briefs, the shape of the tags still hanging off it inside— no wonder Alisha’s face scrunched up at this dress. It’s not very forgiving— he imagines on a girl it would show all the details of bra and knickers, every dimple of cellulite—

‘That’s my dress!’ Alisha’s voice cuts through the air, outrage in every syllable. He sees her and Kelly in the mirror, reflected behind him. They do not look pleased.

‘You weren’t using it,’ he argues back.

‘It was in _my locker,_ ’ she snaps, marching over to him. ‘What are you doing, poking around in my locker?’

‘You been going through our lockers?’ Kelly asks.

He tries to argue, but then Curtis is coming in and going ‘What’s going on?’ and Alisha is telling him that he’s been poking about in their lockers and Kelly is still in his face demanding to know what makes him think he can go looking through their stuff, only now Curtis is joining her and calling him a pervert and to stay out of Alisha’s things.

‘I wasn’t poking about in anyone’s locker!’ he snaps— which is mostly true. ‘I haven’t touched your tampons and dildos and knickers if that’s what you’re worried about—’ he sees Alisha blush, outrage increasing— oh, does she actually have a dildo in there? Good thing he didn’t touch it. He’d have to go get tested again. ‘— I just saw you dump this—’ he gestures at his body, the dress, ‘— in the bottom of your locker ages ago, and when I walked in to find the thing open I—’ he trails off.

‘You what?’ Alisha demands. ‘Decided to steal it and try it on?’

‘Actually, yes,’ he replies, with a shrug. ‘What do you think?’ he gestures at the dress.

‘So you didn’t look in my locker?’ Kelly demands.

‘No!’ he replies. ‘Have a look in there yourself. You’ll see nothing’s been touched— and you two—’ he turns to Curtis and Alisha, ‘I didn’t go anywhere near your locker,’ he says to the other man, ‘and the only thing I touched in yours was the dress.’

‘I don’t fucking get this,’ Curtis snarls, stomping over to his own locker and slamming it open. The other man peers at the contents, frowning, then starts going through it. ‘This is some fucked up shit. Why did you decide you wanted to wear my girlfriend’s dress? You that kind of pervert now?’

The two girls also go to their lockers and start looking through them, the urgency of their movements quickly slowing. See, he didn’t touch anything, only took the dress. ‘I don’t know man,’ he replies to Curtis’ question. He feels— actually he’s feeling kind of exposed by their anger, kind of wrong. Vulnerable. He tries to smile like nothing is bothering him, ‘I just wanted to see what it’s like. You trying to tell me you’ve never wanted to put on your sister’s— if you’ve got a sister— dress? Or your mum’s? Or hers?’ he nods at Alisha.

‘No!’ Curtis replies, face curling up in disgust. ‘Why would I want to—’

Alisha interrupts him to say, ‘He didn’t take anything else.’

‘Yeah, don’t think he’s even been in mine,’ Kelly adds. ‘He must have been telling the truth. How about you, Curtis?’

‘No evidence of anything touched or taken,’ the other man replies.

‘See,’ he says, then shrugs, turns to Alisha, ‘So, do you want the dress back?’ He kind of hopes she says no.

She does say no, emphatically. ‘Not after you’ve been rubbing your body all on the inside of it. I don’t think I want to wear something that’s had Simon’s spunk infused into every inch of it.’

‘So I can keep it?’ he asks, eyes flicking back to his reflection in the mirror.

There’s a pause. It occurs to him his tone wasn’t as blasé as he would have liked. ‘I guess,’ Alisha says after a moment, her face all scrunched up.

‘Is everyone already in—?’ Simon trails off as the man enters the room. He sees pale eyes immediately fix on him. The blush already on his cheeks prickles hotter. ‘What’s going on?’ his boyfriend asks, voice carefully measured. 

‘Your boyfriend stole my dress—’ Alisha begins, but Simon is ignoring her. The man stalks across the room, eyes turning almost black. He watches his boyfriend approach in the mirror, wondering what Simon is thinking.

Will he be disgusted? Oh, he shouldn’t have done this. Why did he do this? He really must be a pervert, and not the fun kind, the kind like his mum was talking about when he confronted Jeremy about the dog thing— the kind that dress in women’s clothing. No way is Simon going to—

Simon comes to a stop behind him, reaching out slowly, looking almost hypnotised. He feels those big, strong hands close over his hips, feels the way the fabric of the dress slithers beneath the touch, riding up—

‘Ok, that’s me out of here,’ Kelly says, grabbing her things as quickly as she can. ‘I’ll get changed in one of the storage rooms. What about you two?’

‘Yeah, I think—’ Curtis begins. ‘Yeah— Come on ‘Lisha.’

In the mirror he sees the three of them scurry out of the room. 

‘You look so pretty,’ Simon breathes against the side of his neck, his boyfriend peering over his shoulder, looking at him in the mirror. 

The breath catches in his throat. His bare toes curl on the cold tiles. A noise, high pitched and wanting, whimpers its way out of his throat. _Pretty._

‘So very pretty,’ Simon is saying, voice soft, those hands coming up to his waist. He can see them in the mirror, strong fingers bracketing his narrow waist. He looks— _delicate._

Oh, this is doing weird things to him. 

‘Do you like it?’ he asks, surprised at how high and breathy the words come out.

He sees Simon blink, sees a considering look come across his face— he waits for it. For rejection. 

His boyfriend leans in and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. ‘I like it, you look very beautiful.’

He’s not quite sure what happens next. He knows that it feels like his blood has been replaced with something fizzy, like coke or beer or champagne. He knows he flushes pinker than he ever thinks he has in his life. He knows he makes some ridiculously embarrassing noise. He knows that it feels like his legs go out from underneath him. He knows that Simon tightens his grip on him to keep him upright, which just makes him keen, arch his back, press his arse against his boyfriend’s cock, swelling beneath that ugly jumpsuit—

‘Where’s your cock?’ he hears Simon muse, one of those hands sliding across his belly and then down, pressing against the root of it, stuffed back between his thighs— it throbs, a weird, stretchy sensation where he’s still trying to hold it tucked back. ‘Ah,’ Simon purrs, hand wheedling in there, cupping it, pressing against his thighs to ease them apart enough that it can spring free, ‘there’s the pretty thing.’

He glances at himself in the mirror, sees the dress rucked up, the obscene bulge of his cock in his black briefs, sees Simon cupping it— ‘Fuck Barry, tell me you have lube.’ Simon shakes his head, and he’s just about to open his mouth and say he’s probably stretched out enough now they could try it dry— when Simon interrupts him.

‘No!’

‘But!’

‘No, Nathan!’ Simon lets go of his cock and wraps both arms around him, squeezing him back against the other man’s body, ‘No.’ Simon presses a kiss to the side of his neck as he covers his boyfriend’s arms with his own. ‘Why don’t we go to bed? I want to— Let me—’ Simon trails off, frowning, as if he can’t work out how to express what he wants to be allowed to do.

Since his general policy regarding Simon wanting to do something to him is to let the man, and then enjoy every moment, he agrees, stumbling a little as Simon steps back. He uses the distance to spin around, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders, leaning in for a kiss— Simon licks into his mouth, aggressive, those hands going to his arse under the dress’ short skirt, fingers running over the edges of his briefs, playing with the elastic. ‘Fuck you’re gorgeous,’ Simon breathes against his mouth, making him shudder.

By the time they stumble up to his nest he’s feeling frazzled, frantic, cock hard, arse pulsing, nerves sparking. He wants it. _He wants it._ ‘Fuck me Barry,’ he whines against his boyfriend’s lips, rocking his hips against the other man’s, not sure if he’ll actually last. 

The dress is hiked up around his waist, his briefs riding low on his hips, Simon’s hands underneath them, squeezing at the flesh of his arse, fingers playing between the cheeks. It’s a miracle they didn’t break their necks getting up here. Neither of them had wanted to let the other go. 

‘G-get on the bed,’ Simon splutters out, trying to pull back. He whines, clinging, chasing Simon’s lips with his own. ‘Come on, please Nathan,’ Simon pleads, very gently pushing him back.

‘Fine,’ he snaps, pulling away and flopping onto the mattress, lying back and spreading his legs, watching his boyfriend expectantly. ‘Now what?’

Simon frowns down at him for a moment, contemplative. ‘Can you—’ his boyfriend begins, hesitating. 

‘Can I—?’ he echoes, beginning to wonder if Simon’s about to ask him to do something really strange. It’ll probably be ok, whatever it is. He hopes. It’s all been ok so far— Why does he feel so nervous? Simon is being odd. He’s not sure he likes this. 

‘Can you—‘ Simon hesitates again, but before he can really worry his boyfriend is saying, sounding nervous, ‘—P-pull your skirt back down— a-and lie with your legs sort of— sort of— together—?’ 

‘My legs together?’ he frowns. What the fuck? ‘Ok Barry, if that’s what you want,’ he says, lifting his hips and awkwardly struggling with the clingy fabric of the dress, until it’s once more covering the tops of his thighs— then having to try and yank it up over his nipples again, eventually reaching some sort of compromise. He lies there, thighs pressed close together, feeling about as sexy as a dead fish. ‘Now what?’

Simon is staring at him, eyes dark. When he asks the question his boyfriend blinks, seems to come back to himself. ‘Just wait there for a moment—’ the other man says, scurrying over to fetch the lube, carefully depositing it on the mattress by his ankle, before Simon quickly strips off his jumpsuit. 

His eyes go to his boyfriend’s cock pressing against the front of Simon’s grey briefs. Big. Fat. Hard. He lips his lips, feels his toes curl. He wants it. He wants it so bad. He wants to reach for it— but Simon asked him to lie there, legs together. He whines in the back of his throat, frustrated.

‘Just—’ Simon mutters, stripping those briefs down his legs, letting his fat cock spring free in its nest of dark pubes. He’s surprisingly hairy, from the waist down—Simon. ‘Fuck!’ he hears the man hiss out as he drops to his knees at the end of the bed, almost black eyes creeping over his legs, his torso, up to his face. ‘You are so beautiful, how did I ever—?’

He shudders again, confused, arms going up instinctively to hide his burning face. ‘What the fuck are you up to Barry?’ he mumbles against his own skin.

‘I just want to touch you,’ Simon breathes out. ‘You’ll let me touch you, won’t you?’

‘O-of course,’ he replies, voice high and reedy. He feels confused. Addled. Usually they’re all over each other— what is Simon thinking?

He flinches as a warm hand curls around his ankle. A moment later he feels a kiss pressed there, against the bone— he shivers. He feels the leg lifted just a little from the mattress and moves his arms just enough to peer down at what his boyfriend is up to— just as Simon bends down, pressing a line of kisses from the top of his foot, over his ankle, and partway up his calf— one hand holding the limb up, the other running up and down— _caressing_ his leg. ‘You have such lovely legs,’ Simon breathes out against the skin of his shin. 

He bleats out a noise, almost pulling his leg out of Simon’s grip. ‘You do,’ Simon says, slithering in between his legs, nuzzling at the side of his knee, the hand not holding his ankle reaching for his other leg, running soft fingers from ankle up the side of his calf to that knee. He shivers, body tingling, brain confused, feeling pinned in place by something he can’t see. This isn’t even like when Simon’s teased him in the past— this is— Simon should be on him, _in_ him, not— 

His boyfriend kneels there for what feels forever, kissing his legs, caressing them, moving from one to the other— little words of praise slipping out, telling him how pretty he is, how lovely his legs are, how—

‘You’re one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen,’ Simon breathes out against the side of his knee.

The words echo through him strangely. He’s not quite sure what happens then. He thinks he kicks Simon away as he pulls his legs up, curling in on himself, turning on his side and trying to burrow under the covers. It feels like someone’s stripped all his skin off, every nerve tingling and verging on painful. Exposed. He feels exposed. His heart is thundering in his ears— panic, or something like panic, he doesn’t know if it’s panic—

‘Nathan!’ Simon’s frantic voice eventually filters through. ‘Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong? Did you not like—?’

For a moment he’s not sure what to do, but then he is— he lurches upright, flinging himself at his boyfriend, climbing into the other man’s lap, wrapping arms and legs around him and nuzzling in close. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whimpers against Simon’s shoulder. His face smears wetly there— Has he actually been _crying?_

‘What happened?’ Simons asks, trying to push him away to look into his face, but he resists. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did wrong—’

‘Nothing,’ he mewls, trying to cling even closer. ‘You didn’t— I don’t know. I feel weird.’

‘What kind of weird? Are you feeling sick?’ he feels Simon trying to get a hand on his forehead to check his temperature. 

He shakes his head, burying his face tighter into Simon’s skin. ‘Not sick.’

A pause. ‘Is it because I told you how beautiful you are?’

He shudders. It’s like every hair on his body is trying to stand on end. Like he’s about to float away—

‘Bad weird?’ Simon asks, pausing, ‘Or _good_ weird?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says after a moment, voice small. ‘—not bad, I don’t think— bad.’

Another pause, Simon’s hands coming to slowly stroke up and down his back. It feels good. Warm. Comforting. He gasps in a breath, feeling a little of whatever the feeling is ease. ‘ _Overwhelmed?_ ’ Simon asks eventually.

He thinks about it for a moment, in the dark, the press of his face to his boyfriend’s bare flesh. _Overwhelmed?_ ‘Yes,’ he answers after a moment. ‘Overwhelmed. That’s right. Sorry.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry,’ Simon says, voice soft, those hands tightening on his back, squeezing him close. 

They sit like that for a moment, until he realises that Simon’s still naked underneath him, the other man’s cock not quite soft, pressing up against his inner thigh. He feels a surge of something soft and warm and affectionate. His boyfriend is still hard and instead of fucking him is holding him because he freaked out for no reason like a complete twat. ‘I love you,’ he mumbles against Simon’s shoulder.

‘I love you too,’ Simon replies, voice a bit choked up— then, after a moment, ‘How about we go get something for dinner? I’ll help you get the dress off—’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head, his face rubbing back and forth against Simon’s skin. ‘I still want— _Fuck me_ Barry.’

There is a pause, Simon’s hands stilling on his back. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Always,’ he says, and it’s not quite a lie. Always until just before, but that was— he doesn’t know what that was.

‘I don’t know that it’s a good idea—’ Simon begins.

‘For fuck’s sake Barry,’ he whines against his boyfriend’s skin. ‘I know I behaved like a twat, but I’m ok now and I want your cock.’

‘ _You didn’t behave like a twat_ ,’ Simon insists, again trying to pull back to get a good look at his face. He’s a bit sick of the emotional sincerity of the moment so he decided the best way to deal with it to try and distract his boyfriend. He grinds down, clenching his legs around Simon, rubbing against that still not quite soft cock until he feels it start to harden up. ‘Ok,’ Simon moans, hands going to his arse, up under the hiked up skirt, grabbing and groping like he likes— ‘But if you feel like that again _tell me_ — or if I’m doing something you don’t like—’

‘You never do anything I don’t like,’ he breathes against Simon’s shoulder, licking it, kissing him there. ‘Come on Barry, put it in me.’

‘Let me eat you out first,’ Simon pants, pulling at him once more. This time he lets his boyfriend detach him, lets the man ease him down onto his back, Simon kneeling up between his thighs. ‘I wanted to do this properly—’ he hears Simon sigh, confusingly, before the man is ducking down, hands creeping up and under the skirt to the waistband of his briefs, hooking them and starting to pull them down to the twanging of the elastic.

Simon flings them away and into the pile of his dirty laundry, then stops, stares down at him. The weird feeling from before starts to come back, so he squirms, wriggling his hips and spreading his legs, trying to get his boyfriend’s attention where he wants it. Simon leans down, sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. It’s awkward and kind of un-coordinated like always, but it feels good and at least Simon’s not panicking this time. 

It’s just—

He used to like getting his cock sucked. Who doesn’t like getting their cock sucked?— other than people without cocks of course. He just kind of wishes something was in his arse at the same time. Maybe he can just— he reaches down, very gently touching Simon’s head— now if he just tilts his hips like _this_ and pushes a tiny bit on Simon like _that_ — ‘For fuck’s sake, put something in me Barry—’ he ends up whining, impatient.

Simon pulls back a little, letting his cock pop out of the man’s mouth. ‘Fingers or—?’

‘You promised me tongue,’ he points out.

Simon obliges, pushing his legs up towards his chest before ducking down again. He feels the press of his thighs to the fabric of the dress— For a split-second he’s caught in looking at them, his legs— pale but so much darker than Simon’s skin, Simon’s words _You have such lovely legs._ Oh, he has no idea what he’s feeling right now.

He feels Simon groping at his arse cheeks, spreading him, feels the first press. Wet. Hot. Slipping up and over, in, lapping at his crack, focussing on his hole. He whines, body surging with the sensation— It’s good. He’s sensitive, a little sore like always, bruised, skin tender, swollen, tight enough after a whole day _without_ that Simon has to work to get that tongue _in._

A little, flailing move and Simon’s reaching for something, the _pop_ of the lube’s top opening telling him what it is. A moment more. Then— He sighs at the pressure, body swallowing Simon’s finger. ‘Gimme,’ he reaches down there, trying to get Simon’s attention. ‘I’ll get myself ready, you get your cock wet.’

‘No,’ the word comes out muffled, spoken against his arse. ‘Let me do this. You just enjoy it.’

‘But I want it,’ he whines.

‘Be patient,’ is all he gets in return. He sighs, flopping back against the bed, then moans, hips arching up as Simon feeds him another finger, slick, wet tongue lapping around them, pushing up between them—

Simon tortures him for three fingers and then entirely more scissoring than he needs, tongue teasing him the entire time. Honestly at this point he probably doesn’t even need to be fingered first if he’s getting it regularly, all Simon would really need to do was slick his cock, or maybe get a bit of lube up him with a quick push of a couple of fingers if the man wanted to be extra considerate, and then— But Simon is always considerate. 

The urge to again tell his boyfriend that he loves him rises up, unexpected and choking. He bites it back, bites his lips. 

His body feels _hungry._

Simon pulls back enough to ask, ‘Are you ready?’ 

‘Yes!’ he yelps, reaching for the other man, tugging on him until Simon moves up and over him, between his legs. ‘Fuck me!’

He reaches down to help guide his boyfriend in, but Simon’s hand is already there and then Simon’s cock is _there_ and then the man is thrusting, slow and steady, and his entire body blooms beneath the sensation.

‘Oh fuck,’ he hears himself mewl.

‘You feel so good,’ Simon grunts, hips working.

The push and pull and drag and stretch and pressure of it is almost as good as the times those thrusts hit that sweet spot inside of him. He knows he’s whining, mewling, rubbish spilling from his lips, grabbing at Simon— not sure if he’s trying to speed the man up or just pull him closer, pull him inside his own skin. 

It’s sometime in there, in the confusing push of it, his eyes watering again from how good it feels, that the _want_ sparks in him. ‘Tell me I’m pretty,’ he begs.

A pause, and then Simon says, ‘You’re pretty,’ voice careful.

He moans, lights sparking off behind his eyes, fingers and toes tingling. ‘Yes,’ he sighs, ‘Tell me I’m pretty.’

‘You’re pretty,’ Simon repeats, voice firmer. ‘You’re so pretty. You’re beautiful—’

‘Oh, God,’ he splutters, hand worming its way between them, grabbing for his cock. ‘Yes. Yes. Oh, fuck, I want your spunk, cum in me, fuck, creampie me Barry, I love you, tell me I’m pretty.’

‘You’re pretty, Nathan, you’re so pretty,’ Barry groans, hips jerking, almost— almost— ‘I love you too. I love you— you’re beautiful. Nathan. Beautiful—’

He comes, whole body spasm of it, arms and legs clenching and then starting to shake, losing his grip on his cock, feeling his spunk slick up between them, brain shivering, world sparkling behind his eyes. ‘Oh fuck,’ he hears from somewhere far away, Simon twitching in his arms, the feel of warm and wet up there—

He’s trembling when he comes back to himself, every touch skating the boundary between pleasure and pain. _Overwhelmed,_ that’s right. He hears Simon call his name, ‘Nathan?’ grey eyes on his face, his boyfriend still clenched in his grasp. 

He drops his arms, legs, lets Simon pull back, pull out— he shudders, whines, the feel of it— wet oozing out of him— It feels so _intense_ this time. He doesn’t know why. 

Simon helps him sit up, hands gentle, then strips the dress over his head, rubbing softly at the mark on his back where the tags dug in and rubbed him raw without him even feeling it. He reaches for his boyfriend then, pulls him into a kiss— Simon eases him back onto the bed, cuddling up next to him, not even bothering to try and clean up any, sticky skin sticking to sticky skin. 

He falls asleep not long after that, wakes still in Simon’s arms.


End file.
